Integra Her Conclave
by atannenbaum
Summary: A woman struggling with supernatural forces seeks help from the only person in Britain who can master them. RODHellsing crossover with Nancy Makuhari and Sir Integra Hellsing. Set early in the ROD OVA. Please comment.


I do not own Read or Die nor any of its characters, all of whom are the property of Hideyuki Kurata and his collaborators. I do not own Hellsing nor any of its characters, all of whom are the property of Kouta Hirano and _his_ collaborators. If I did own them, I suppose I'd be filthy rich.

**Integra Her Conclave,**

**Or**

**The Spider's Colloquy**

**I**

The long English summer afternoon was fading at last. The lawns and gardens of the manor house were falling into the shadows of its high walls and the ancient trees that ringed the grounds. Night always seemed to come faster in this place than elsewhere.

It was a dangerous hour, but it had its advantages. Creatures that had been forced to lie low in daylight began to emerge cautiously from their hides.

A low, bushy hillock sat just beyond the furthest and wildest of the manor's gardens. A figure crept from beneath an unkempt hedge and slithered through the tall grass towards the military crest of the knoll, hauling a long, slim object in its wake. A loose dark garment covered it from head to below the knees, blending in well with the gray shadow that now fell across the knoll. Once it had stopped moving, the figure was very hard to see from any angle and invisible from below the crest.

There was a click so soft a mouse could hardly have heard it.

"Saint Barbara to Saint Andrew," a young woman's voice said in a soft Japanese accent. "In forward position."

"Saint Andrew to Saint Barbara. Acknowledged. God be with ye."

"Roger. Out."

The blades of grass on the crest of the hillock now parted slightly, just enough to admit the barrel of an MG42 machine gun.

The girl nestled in the grass, watching. Minutes passed, but nothing stirred in the garden.

A narrow shadow, darker than the others, moved now behind the watcher on the knoll. It moved very, very quickly.

The girl in the grass sensed movement and spun around, a large automatic pistol in her hand. A long, muscular leg flashed out and kicked the pistol loose.

The girl fumbled for the machine gun, but her attacker was too quick. A powerful knee pinned the girl to the ground. She raised her head and found herself staring down the slender, elegant barrel of a Mauser machine pistol. A black-clad woman with reddish eyes looked down at her.

"Very poor," the red-eyed woman said. "Iscariot is giving its novices on the job training, I see."

"H-heretic," the girl stuttered. "You'll pay for this."

"I'm not a heretic," the woman said mildly. "I was a Calvinist long ago. Somebody thinks I'm a Buddhist now, but I'm really a Nothing."

"Your eyes are red," the girl said. "Are you a freak or a vampire?"

"All that and more," the woman said. "How's Father Alexander these days? Still buggering the orphans?"

"S-shut up and kill me. I'd rather not hear your blasphemy."

"I would kill you," the woman said, "But that's not what I came here for. Besides, nuns were good to me once."

"You'll pay for this."

"No doubt. Yet you remind me of someone I've just met. You look very like her from a distance. What's your name?"

"Sister Yumiko," the girl said.

The woman chuckled. "That's almost too perfect. You haven't got her figure, though."

She poked the nun's cheek lightly with the barrel of her pistol. "I don't suppose you like to have your glasses touched either, do you?"

"God forgive you."

"You Iscariot nuns have such fun with one another, don't you? Cross-dressing as priests and all. Tell me, why do all of you seem to come from the Axis powers?"

The woman kept her knee on the nun's chest. With her free hand, she picked up the machine gun and laid it across her thigh. She twisted it open, removed the bolt and barrel, and flung them far into the trees. She did the same with the girl's automatic.

"There, Sister Yumiko, that ought to put you in solid with your boss," the woman said. She glanced down the slope of the hillock. "By the way, thanks for showing me the path through the minefield. I wondered where it was."

"Who are you?"

"Sayonara, Yumiko-chan," the woman said. She struck the nun solidly on her small chin, sending her into unconsciousness.

The woman turned the nun onto her back and frisked her pockets. She found what she needed: a standard-issue Iscariot rosary, strong enough to serve as a garrote or a length of climbing rope. She bound Yumiko's hands with the rosary, bound her feet with the carrying strap from the machine gun, and gagged her with her own wimple.

She left the trussed-up girl under a shrubbery and vanished from the knoll.

**II**

In any other office the day would be winding to a close, but at Hellsing Manor the busiest hours of the twenty-four were approaching. The last paperwork was being done; briefings had been scheduled; the night's operations would follow.

Walter sat behind his desk in the outer office, doing his best to concentrate on his own clerical work while politely ignoring the man and the girl who sat opposite waiting to see his mistress. They both disturbed him in their different ways, but they were at least familiar. He was not expecting any further visitors today.

Walter glanced up from his household accounts to see a woman walking down the long hall towards him. Walter was used to strange sights, but this woman was strange indeed.

She was young, in her mid-twenties perhaps, with bluish-purple hair; tall, though not as tall as his mistress. She wore a blue-black catsuit that clung to her body like a second skin. She had a superb figure, and her suit was cut to show it to best advantage. A large gun dangled from her belt, and the butt of another stuck out of a holster strapped to one of her boots.

She walked as a cat walks, coolly, provocatively, and with absolute assurance. Her magenta eyes were knowing and insolent.

Walter put a hand near the gun in his desk drawer and put his foot near the alarm signal. He smiled benignly at the visitor while he did this.

The woman strode up to his desk and rested her left hand on her hip.

Walter smiled again. "Yes, ma'am, may I be of assistance?"

The woman flicked her wrist and a card fluttered onto the desk. Walter picked it up. It was on expensive stock and elegantly printed.

**Nancy Makuhari**

27 Ure Road Belsize Park London NW 01678 (81) 3923 -3769

"I'd like to see Sir Integra, please," the woman said in a rather deep voice. "Now."

Walter tried to place her accent. It sounded American, but there was a trace of British in the vowels and word-endings. He went through the form of opening his desk calendar.

"You don't seem to have an appointment, Miss Makuhari," he said. "In fact, persons without appointments are not admitted to Hellsing Manor. Would you care to tell me how you evaded our security?"

"No," Nancy said. "I wouldn't."

"I'm afraid that in that case—"

"Look," Nancy said, "If I'd come here to kill her I wouldn't waste my time trying to be polite to you. Now, could you be a good flunky and please take my card in to her?"

Walter's sallow skin turned a deep shade of buff.

"What, might I ask, is your business with Sir Integra?"

"None of yours."

Walter heard the man in the red coat laugh. He didn't like that, but Nancy seemed to enjoy it.

"It's most irregular, but I'll see what I can do," Walter said.

"You do that."

"Wait here, please." Walter put the card on a silver plate and left the office.

Nancy found a chair and sat in it. The orange-haired girl opposite her gave a start of recognition.

"Nancy," she said in a low voice.

Nancy nodded shortly. "Hello, PC Seras. I didn't expect to see you here. And it's Sergeant McHarry, in case you'd forgotten."

"Oh. Right."

"You know our little police girl then, _cocotte_?" the man in red asked her.

"Mais oui," Nancy said, "Mais le cocotte n'est pas un nom que j'aime, cochon."

"Votre performance etait en ce moment la plus amusante. Je l'ai apprécié considérablement."

Nancy ignored him and looked at the girl. "Tell me, Seras, is Hellsing employing Doctor Who cosplayers now?" She looked at the man again. "Tom Baker was a fine actor, but I always fancied Leela more myself."

The man said nothing. By way of reply, he glared mockingly at Nancy and tried to stare her out of countenance.

This went on for some time. Seras looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. Nancy did not blink and showed no inclination to do so.

This irritated the man in red. His yellowish eyes glowed with annoyance and the smile left his lips.

"I see you have the vulgarity common to those who ply your trade," he said finally.

"It's honest work, compared to some," Nancy replied. "What's the saying? Romanian is not a nationality, it's a profession."

"La nuit vient, ma petite. Vouz avez eu mieux être allé d'ici là. La nuit je suis invincible."

"Pas toujours, et pas a tout. Vous n'étiez pas un nuit invincible à Paris, en 1907 ou je crois. Vous n'avez pas satisfait à un moment critical. La Grande Horizontale vous á surpassé."

"Ou avez-vous entendu cette histoire?"

"Ah, la verite de cela est bien connue dans ma fraternité. Nous avons toujours appris que la reputation amoureuse de votre race est considerablement exagéreé."

The man in red rose from the couch, trembling in every muscle. What little color there was in his face drained away. Nancy regarded him coolly and showed no alarm.

The main in red turned suddenly on his heel and stormed from the room, swearing in several languages.

"You shouldn't have insulted him like that," Seras said.

"Yes I should have," Nancy said. "Men are arrogant, Continental aristocrats are more arrogant, and vampires are the most arrogant of all. He's all three."

"He's been good to me," Seras said quietly.

"For his own reasons, I'm sure," Nancy said. "Men are like that, especially dead ones."

"You insulted Walter, too. He's a decent man. Why do you always have to make enemies, Nancy?"

"Because enemies are more reliable than allies. And don't call me Nancy. Ours was a strictly working relationship."

Seras looked at the floor. "I know. But neither of us is with the police anymore."

"No," Nancy said. "No, a lot has happened since then."

"I missed you," Seras said. "I wondered what had happened to you."

Nancy heard footsteps coming down the hallway and looked up. Walter was back, but he looked even less happy than he had a quarter of an hour before.

"She will receive you," he told Nancy.

"She'll see me, I think you mean," Nancy replied. "Only the Queen 'receives.' And the Pope."

"She's waiting, Miss Makuhari. Please come this way." Walter turned and went back the way he had come.

Nancy got up and began to follow him.

"I wish you had let me be your friend," Seras said behind her.

Nancy did not look up. "Goodbye—Vicky."

She turned a corner and was gone from the office.

Walter did some twisting and turning down a dark corridor and came to a large oaken door. Nancy trailed behind him by a few steps.

He turned to her on the threshold and held out his hand.

"You will leave your weapons with me, please."

"Which ones, Walter? I have so many."

He did not smile. "Your firearms, Miss Makuhari."

"My guns are my friends, Walter. Where I go, they go. She knows me, so she knows that, too."

"Nevertheless."

Nancy smiled at him. Then she slowly unbuckled her gun belt, rolled it up, and put it in his large palm. She removed the .380 Beretta from her leg holster and put it on top of the big Mauser.

"There," she said. "I'm practically naked now. Would you care to frisk me as well, or do a strip search? You can summon Seras to do it if you'd rather not yourself. I don't mind either way."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"You sure? I just want you to be happy in your work, Walter."

He said nothing. The smile left Nancy's face.

"It's lucky for you I'm not here to kill," Nancy said. "I don't need a gun for _that_."

Walter turned away from her and rapped on the door.

A sharp voice answered from within. "Come."

**III**

Walter opened the door. A tall, slender blonde woman was seated at a massive black desk inside. She wore round glasses and a neatly cut dark green suit. A miniature cigar was tightly clenched in her teeth. She did not look up from the pile of papers before her.

"Miss Makuhari, My Lady."

"Give her back her weapons, Walter," Sir Integra said.

"My Lady?"

"You have not gone deaf."

Walter handed the pistols back to Nancy. His face was as rigid as a Roman bust.

"Leave us," his mistress said.

He did so, closing the door with no noise at all. The blonde woman made a regal gesture in the general direction of a chair, still without looking up.

"Pray be seated."

Nancy sat down and threw one leg casually over the other. Integra signed a document, pushed it away, and finally raised her eyes to look at her guest.

"I don't know what Joker wants of me this time," she said, "Nor why he sent one of his field agents instead of his favourite Girl Guide. He usually does me the small courtesy of requesting an interview, but his rudeness in not doing so now is no great surprise. Whatever he wants you may tell him the answer is the same as it has always been and always will be: no."

"I—"

Integra held up her hand and turned slightly towards the door.

"Piss off, Walter."

Nancy sensed rather than heard something move behind the door. Then she sensed that it was gone.

"Listening at keyholes," Nancy said. "My, my. He's a little over-protective of you, isn't he?"

"I trust Walter with my life," Integra said. "In his zeal, he sometimes forgets his station."

"He's in love with you, it sticks out a mile. I'd be careful if I were you, you might wake up one morning and find he's whittled your neck away."

"I presume that you were not sent here to discuss my domestic help problem. You may take my answer back to your master."

"He's not my master, he's my boss." Nancy said. Then she grinned. "You don't like Joker very much either, do you?"

"I've known him since childhood. As a schoolboy, he beat his fags and pulled wings off flies. Now he's a Jack-in-Office who's arse-crawled his way into the favor of a great man—the senile wreck of a great man, I should say. Like all Dissenters and members of the middle classes, Master Carpenter tries too hard. But his personality is really neither here nor there. Let's say that he and I differ fundamentally in our views of what Britain is and should be."

"You're frank, at least, especially considering that I work for him."

Integra shrugged. "I felt in our first interview that you and I understood one another. Besides, Joker has never concealed his view of my organization. He recently referred to it as 'a Tudor excrescence on the façade of the modern state.' So, whatever business he sent you on--"

"I didn't come here on Joker's business."

The cool eyes behind the glasses brightened slightly. "Indeed. On whose, then?"

"My own."

"Ah," Integra said. "I'd hoped that was the case. You have reconsidered, then. My offer has always stood. I'm glad to see that you've at last decided to accept it."

Nancy smiled slightly but said nothing. Integra pushed a small gilt box and an old army-issue lighter across the desk.

"Excuse my ill-manners," she said. "Would you care for a smoke? I think this occasion calls for one."

Nancy nodded. She opened the box, removed a cigar, and lit it.

"Zeer goed," she said after a couple of drags. "Mijn vadar was dieerbar hiervan. Vele dank."

"Uw Hollands is vitstekend," Integra said. "Maar war u een dergelijk sterk accent Frisian kreeg?"

"The Frisian accent? My father worked a lot with KNIL intelligence during the war," Nancy replied. "I think the Dutch language officer who taught him passed it along."

"Yes. But our genealogical research indicated that you had some Frisian ancestry as well."

"So do the Hellsings, do they not?"

"Yes," Integra said. "Helsing is a village near Leeuwarden. The Van Helsings were of Woudker descent, in fact. So were your Frisian ancestors."

"Indeed," Nancy said. "Perhaps we're related."

"Perhaps we are. A fascinating part of the world, the Dutch-German borderland; a great center for heresy and the occult. Some interesting people come from that region. Interesting names, too. Van Beethoven. Van Winkle."

"My father was always much more interested in genealogy than I was," Nancy said. "He told me a few stories, but I can't say I believed all of them."

"Didn't you?" Integra asked. "Not even those that told you where your power came from?"

"There was one I remember," Nancy said carefully, "A story about a man called Fitzroy—"

"Bastard son of Henry VIII by Elizabeth Blount. He did not die in 1536, but escaped from the leaden coffin in which he was being taken for burial. He was a Deep, of course. His life was in such danger that he could not live openly under his true name in England. He ran to Ireland and assumed the name of McHarry."

Nancy nodded slowly, a nod of respect.

"The story is true," Integra said, "As I'm sure you already knew. The Gentleman knows, of course."

Nancy nodded again.

"That is one reason why I was so anxious to have you for Hellsing. Blood counts for a great deal in our work, and yours is as blue as your hair. Your power is a gift by blood from the second founder of our faith. It will be a priceless weapon in our struggle. Besides," Integra added, "I seldom have an opportunity to work with those who are both my social and my intellectual equals."

"I suppose I should be flattered," Nancy said.

"Don't joke. You have no more false modesty than I do. You're the finest candidate for Hellsing I've ever seen. You fear nothing. You kill without hesitation. You are superbly fit and one of the finest shots on two continents. Your TA record was outstanding; you could have had a regular commission in any regiment. You won every honour at Cambridge. Like so many who work here, you are alone in the world. No one would miss you if you fell."

"Yes," Nancy said quietly. "That's true enough."

"Attachments are a—distraction in our work. Like so many Japanese and part Japanese, you have no trouble _believing_ in the sort of beings we combat. You are, perhaps, a bit wanting in your practice of the faith—"

"I'm a girl who likes to have fun, if that's what you mean."

"Those who will not be servants will be instruments. Our enemies rely greatly upon their women. With your—abilities in that area, we need fear them no more."

"I do like to enjoy my work. I can see that you're no prude, either."

"This is war, and I will use every weapon at hand. I am proud to welcome you to Hellsing."

"Dear me," Nancy said. "I haven't gotten so much praise since my last performance review. But then that only came from Joker, not you."

Integra stood up and reached for the phone on her desk. "I'll have Walter get started on your paperwork."

"Don't," Nancy said quickly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look," Nancy said, "I appreciate all you've said. But I don't want you to misunderstand me."

Integra's hand withdrew from the phone.

"I'm sorry," Nancy said, "But I'm not leaving the British Library."

"But why not?" Integra asked. "I don't understand you."

Nancy could not look at the cold eyes behind the desk. "I told you why in our last interview," she said, "When I first refused your offer. There are things I have to do there. I have—certain obligations laid on me. Surely someone in your position should be able to appreciate that."

"What 'obligations?'"

"I was born to be a British Library agent," Nancy said. "I can't say any more."

"Can't?" Integra asked sharply. "Or won't?"

Nancy made no reply.

Integra turned her back on Nancy and stared out into the gathering night.

"Very well. You've said what you're willing to say, and I know you well enough not to waste my breath trying to make you say more. I shan't even try to make you change your mind. Yet it galls me to think of a woman of your--attainments working for a man like _that_."

"I'm sorry."

"Spare me your apologies. Why did you come here at all? Just to torment me by refusing me again?"

"I came," Nancy said, "For help."


End file.
